Bitter Warmth to Sweet Freeze
by Sky Blue Angel
Summary: House knows he's in love. Foreman doesn't want to be. The Jews may have invented guilt, but the Catholics perfected it. When Wilson can see what he missed and Chase knows what he’s missing. Chase/Foreman, House/Wilson
1. Bitter Warmth

iThere's an angel so close he can taste/i

TITLE: Bitter Warmth

AUTHOR: Danielle

PAIRING: House/Wilson, Foreman/Chase - both unrequited

RATING: PG

WARNINGS: Slash (duh?), angst, rejection, poem-fic

SUMMARY: House knows he's in love. Foreman doesn't want to be. But some things can only be denied by the other side. (Not a good summary!)

DISCLAIMER: The characters? NOT MINE. The poem is mine, actually. But House isn't!

NOTES: Beta-ed by my friend Rachel! Yay!

_There's an angel so close he can taste_

House doesn't taste the Vicodin, not any more. But there's still a memory of bitterness on his tongue. It touches everything, from coffee to sugar. Flavors fade and it's all just another chore to keep his body working. He has to do what he has to do, needs to live to find the next problem. And, sometimes, he tries to imagine what the food used to taste like. It's ever vivid, always faded behind pain and weathered by a surge of relief. Vicodin messes with that memory, maybe for the best.

But Wilson is salty, sweet and delicious. Not even the pills can change that.

_Touch the skin and the warmth so near_

The hospital is always kept too warm, though Foreman would never admit that. Time went slower in the warmth, sitting and doing his best not to just drift with the faint heater's breeze. None of the others seemed to notice, ignoring the heat the radiated through the walls. Patients never complained, curled under blankets and moaning it was cold. But Foreman knew it had to be hot, had to be boiling.

There was no other reason to watch Chase. Not even the ones he so desperately made up.

_Almost asleep on the molded couch_

Wilson had fallen asleep on the couch again. House didn't actually care, but he knew he should have. Julie had his phone number, after all. Two am phone calls weren't often fun, especially since they never brought a mystery to the surface. Everyone, even the patients other doctors treated, knew about Wilson's marriage. So House popped a Vicodin, took a moment to watch Wilson and turned away. The other man's taste was still on the cup he'd sipped, a final gulp of beer laced with some unmistakable.

The other doctor didn't need to know he tasted like strawberries and cream.

_So used to loving touches, lonely nights_

Foreman was too tired to remember her name when he lay in the empty bed, imagining dark skin and a sudden flash of blonde hair that he can't seem to shake. It should have rolled off his tongue. She was gone for a week and all he'd tried to do was miss her. That failing, he didn't want to think about Chase. He kept his apartment cold to prevent that, to keep him focused. But even textbooks failed after clinic hours, after cases of diseases he had to struggle to keep straight.

Chase didn't need to know that Foreman lay awake thinking about him.

_Working into darkness as pain recedes_

House rarely worked late, doing his level best to avoid that. Even if it, occasionally, meant missing his soaps. But when Wilson left for an attempt at a second (third, fourth? Too many to count, too much effort and nothing in return) honeymoon, he stayed in his office until the sun rose again. Pill after pill, bitter tastes washed away without a moment's thought. There was no reason to sleep as the volume on his iPod crept up.

But when Wilson came back, he made sure to insinuate everything that could have gone wrong. Especially when it had.

_Echoing piano notes spin and weave_

Foreman can't really play an instrument. He used to try, sometimes. All the other med students said it was relaxing, a great idea. But he never got the hang of it. Music just wasn't his thing. But more and more he finds himself listening to piano solos and classical music that thrums through buildings and walls and echoes in his tiny apartment. He can't decide why it reminds him of Chase.

But there's something old about the other man, old and knowing sometimes. But when he's being a prick, Foreman just turns the music in his head up louder and talks to Cameron.

_This tapestry that is unknown, hidden_

Wilson starts leaving a blanket in House's place a month before the divorce begins. Both doctors know what that means. It happens every time, a pillow and a blanket settling onto the couch. No one else notices, the accessories hidden beneath House's typical book and paper mess. But they both know it's there, they both know why. And no one talks when Wilson climbs into House's car the night after the papers are signed.

That night he tells Wilson what he tastes like. And the other doctor laughs it off, claiming House is oranges dipped in vanilla. With a smile and a snip, their lives begin to unravel.

_Beneath the paperwork and little quips_

When Cameron tells him to talk to Chase, it's all Foreman can do to keep from laughing in her face. They both know the little blonde brown-noser would give him the look and then never talk again. But her eyes are pleading and look like her heart might break if he doesn't. So he nods, decides not to, and walks away. But there are no new cases and the only entertainment seems to be Chase's crossword puzzles.

Foreman gives him the wrong answers. They look at each other, eyes meeting across a partially darkened room. It's all clear, proposal and rejection silently communicated, an understanding reached before it even begins.

_There's nothing more than one man's heart._


	2. Sweet Freeze

Chase wonders, sometimes, who invented guilt

TITLE: Sweet Freeze

AUTHOR: Danielle

PAIRING: House/Wilson, Foreman/Chase

RATING: PG

WARNINGS: Slash, angst, rejection, fluff

SUMMARY: The Jews may have invented guilt, but the Catholics perfected it. (When Wilson can see what he missed and Chase knows what he's missing.) Sequel to a href /users/thoughtthestars/130406.html#cutid1 Bitter Warmth /a

DISCLAIMER: The characters? NOT MINE. Not mine at all! Or there would be tie fetish everywhere and lots of duckling threesomes (That's what I'll write next!)

NOTES: Beta-ed by my friend Rachel! Yay!

Chase wonders, sometimes, who invented guilt. He knows who taught it to him, who trained him to know right from wrong. But someone had to have created it. The kids used to whisper that the Jews did, nice Catholic boys convinced that they had perfected it. Well, it had been a joke. But watching Wilson try to talk to House, try to prod the answers out of the mind, Chase was almost convinced. Guilt may have been a Jewish thing, but only a Catholic could perfect it.

Foreman's eyes met his across the table, but they never held his gaze. All Chase wanted to know was who's fell first.

--

House's couch was surprisingly comfortable to Wilson. He'd spent many nights there before, but something seemed new. A little difference in the piano that echoed at night, the step of his cane and foot. Everything had a slower rhythm, calmer and different. But when House asked when he would be moving out, something clicked. Even through two divorces (three now) and three marriages House had never asked him when to leave.

And when he talked to Stacy the next morning, she smiled at him over the clipboard and asked him if they were sharing a bed. All he could do was stare.

--

It's a new girl every night, a new nurse hanging off his arm and giggling. They all know they don't mean anything, happy to just listen to his accent and sigh. All smiles and rainbows and sometimes Chase wants to scream. But it's better than a beer with Foreman, awkward silence and Cameron's pitying gaze. So they chose expensive French restaurants and talked about patients they never had in common. After dessert, he'd shake their hand and kiss their sweet lips and wonder why he didn't care.

Sometimes he slept with them. But they never smiled after that, and none of them wanted a second date.

--

Wilson found himself brooding next to House's bed, staring at the extra cane hanging off the dresser and the books that looked like they needed dusting. Stacy had spent several hours trying to evade explaining the jokes and quips and rumors she'd started, smiling as disarmingly as she could. But Wilson had left with a definite feeling that he was missing something very big, very important and very obvious. And when Cuddy gave him a look over the patient's file, he knew there had to be something.

He'd proposed to Julie after she'd accused him of loving House more than her. She'd sneered at his attentions and so he'd fallen to one knee.

--

The last of the nurses trickled through his fingers quicker than the rest, stories and gossip echoing through the hospital faster than anything Chase could imagine. Friday came without a date and Cameron asked him to come drinking. She smiled at him with sad eyes and said they wanted him there. It wasn't like anyone man in their right mind could resist her. And all the nurses, doctors, receptionists, interns and, hell, patients he could have asked were busy.

So he found himself sitting at bar, pushed next to Foreman by a completely innocent looking Cameron. And when they talk about nothing at all, focusing on their beer, he knows they won't ask him again.

--

Wilson knew something was wrong when a nurse offered her couch until he found an apartment. He was assured beyond a doubt when his suitcases appeared next to the couch. But he didn't pack, just sat back on the leather and waited. Not that he had anything else to do, anywhere else to stay. And when House came back, locking the door with a click and turning to see Wilson, surprise in his eyes.

"Were my suitcases taking up too much room in your closet?" A quip, a snip, that was the best way to deal with House.

"I was thinking of getting some high heel shoes. Maybe something in a hot pink?"

"What's going on?" Wilson had to admit it was hard to be subtle and serious with an image of House in high heels and a feather boa dancing around his head.

"Why would anything be going on? Are you cheating on me?" And there's a catch in his voice that Wilson's never heard before, hidden behind scorn and sarcasm. Something clicks as he stares at House, the big obvious thing he's always missed.

"No. But I lied to you."

"Anything new?" Those eyes were too blue, too bright as they focused on him, around him, into him.

"You don't taste like orange. It's more a Vicodin and vanilla flavor." Which he doesn't know about either. But it's time he did.

And when he kisses House, swallowing their moans, he finds he was right the first time.


End file.
